No Regrets
by MoiraFae
Summary: No one should wake David Hodges from a well earned sleep ... unless it's for a good reason.


No Regrets

_Damn those little chemicals …_

The doorbell rang once, then again. Ptolemy the Great licked his chops and then blinked green eyes at the door, the great ginger cat's head turning almost 90 degrees as he watched David Hodges emerge, blinking in confusion from his bedroom at the back of the small house.

A third time the doorbell rang. David's half-awake blue eyes met Ptolemy's wide greens before shooting back to the door. The cat stretched up, then thought twice about winding himself through his owner's legs; the man was dragging his feet a bit, and tom cat didn't think the satisfaction was worth the possible danger. Instead he pawed off towards the study and his scratching post.

There was knocking now, hesitant and staccato. Hodges leaned against the counter that separated the living room from the small kitchen and stared at the door some more. He'd been woken from a sound sleep brought on by a very, very long shift in the lab. About a day and a half ago, Nick Stokes had been abducted and buried alive. They had spent the next twenty-four hours searching for him, all of them working to the ends of their rope, until he had been found.

David himself had wrestled evidence from a deliveryman, had sweated and scraped hard through night, day and back into night for trace. He continued working, even as they dug Stokes out of the ground, to discover the clue that would keep the entire crew from being blown to bits by the explosives that had been wired to the bottom of the plastic coffin.

He had earned his rest – they all had. Day shift had come in, swing was covering, the entire night shift had been given leave, if they wanted it, to take the next two days off, whether it be to visit Nick in the hospital, to wind down, or to catch much needed sleep. David had cashed in on the third option. He might go and see Stokes when things had quieted down, but he needed sleep badly. Scraping plastic and staring at the GCMS willing it into giving you results was utterly tiring, even if the machine couldn't help but bend to his magnificent will.

So he went home and, after pausing only to get ready for sleep and make sure the cat was watered and fed, he crashed into bed. Now he was wondering why the hell he was awake, and who could possibly be at his door. He certainly wasn't expecting anyone. The fact that he was wearing blue striped pajama pants and nothing else spoke to that. Reaching up, the technician rubbed his eyes and then brushed the hand through his hair, trying to restart his senses. Another thudding on the door told him the person wasn't leaving.

"Who ... the hell?" He muttered under his breath, padding to the door. Waking him up was not going to make this a pleasant experience for whoever was on the other side of that door.

Leaning against it, he said loudly, "I'm not buying anything, so you might as well go away!"

"Hodges, open the door," A familiar voice on the other side responded in kind. Frowning slightly, more in confusion than anything else, Dave opened the door a crack and peered out into the late morning light. There stood the familiar frame of Greg Sanders, a face to match the voice, and wholly out of place. If not catching some sleep, surely Greg would be visiting his friend at the hospital, not ringing his bell and drumming on his door. If Jacqui hadn't thrown that impromptu lab rat kegger at his house over a year ago, he'd be seriously wondering how the hell Greg even knew where he lived. Still, it was very strange.

Or worrying. David opened the door wider, his brow creasing with perplexity. Had something happened? His voice was suddenly and sincerely concerned, "Greg, what are you doing here? What's going on?"

Looking at him only for a moment, Greg's brown eyes wandered away from David as he hesitated. He looked so tired. Lines drawn by weariness and outlined by dirt were laid prematurely into his cheeks. It emphasized what the trace tech missed so acutely, had only been able to voice two days before, and in rather poor terms, over his favorite game. He missed the old Greg. Lab rat, DNA tech Greg. _His _Greg.

Greg's loud shirts, loud music, loud opinions; in short, Greg's spirit had been changed in his first year in the field, and not necessarily for the better, at least not in David's opinion. The boy still flirted with everyone, and he still smiled, but not as much. All his looks, his hair, his laugh seemed dampened, just in case it was too out of line for a proper, stick-in-the-mud CSI. It had even been a while since David had heard Greg laugh, surely a sign of impending doom. He knew it had probably been his failed proficiency that had been the first nail in the coffin. The last 48 hours had probably had an even more serious effect.

Sanders' confidence, for one thing, in the past unflappable, now seemed to be gone as he searched for words on David's front step.

"I ... David, can I come in?"

Usually, David would have demanded an explanation, or given witty repartee. The use of his first name startled him into compliance. Stepping back, he gave a silent nod, opening the door wide to admit the younger man into his darkened abode. Greg brushed past him, making a beeline for the couch and settling onto it heavily, his eyes on the wall, the floor ... Anywhere but Hodges, standing warily at the door.

David closed the door slowly, listening to it latch before turning and automatically flipping on the lamp. Shades never occurred to him anymore as something that should open, as daylight was more often than not the enemy, something to be kept out at all costs. There was a tension in the air that he felt obligated to put a dent in. Slowly, he walked across to the armchair, folding his arms as he sat. "I can't fathom why you're here. I didn't page you, Sanders."

"Not funny, David," Was the quiet reply. Usually Greg would at least appreciate his attempts at levity. Something was definitely wrong here. But David obviously wasn't very good at being tactful about finding such things out.

"I wasn't expecting anyone. You could have called."

"Your cell is off, and I don't know your land line. Sorry about that."

Point. David fuzzily remembered powering down his phone before plugging it in to safeguard against the unlikely chance that Ecklie would rescind his promise to give them all a break. "It's turned off. I forgot." The closest, perhaps, to an apology he was going to give at the moment. "How did you even know I was home?"

"Your car was parked out front."

All this work to get answers was getting annoying. "Why are you here, Greg?"

"David," Greg said, finally looking up at him, "I wanted to ... I needed to talk to you. Is that alright?" His eyes shot away again, towards the kitchen where a tabby orange shape ghosted across the counter.

"Sure, Sanders. But I'm over here. Do you have to keep looking away, or should I just drape a sheet over myself and you can pretend you're talking to the chair?"

"Sorry," Greg apologized again, and this time he blushed inexplicably. David gave an inappropriate smirk, internalizing the fact that he always thought Greg far too attractive, especially when he blushed. "It's just that you're in your pjs. Rightly so, I might add, but I've just never seen you without a shirt on."

"Oh," Dave said, looking down, smirk replaced with surprise. This was true. The trace tech almost never changed shirts in the locker room, and when he did, he tended to make sure no one was around. He hadn't even thought about it until that moment, realizing his slim, rather pale torso was exposed and his feet were bare. But who cared? He had been alone and asleep in his abode until Greg had wandered in, and he didn't see why him being shirtless would be such a problem. It wasn't like he had love handles or a spare tire or anything. "You did wake me out of a sound sleep."

"Sorry."

"Greg, stop apologizing."

"S ... Okay."

"Focus. You were about to tell me why you were pounding down my door."

Greg was now making a concerted effort to look at David's face, even though his ears were turning a bit red. "Er, right. Well ... Uh ... First, Nicky's doing well. He's stable, and they're treating all those ant bites. He was really dehydrated, and he's probably going to need therapy, but who wouldn't, right? They gave him a transfusion, because when we pulled him out, he had a lot of carbon monoxide flooding his blood. Otherwise, he's doing really well. They're actually saying his hospital stay's going to probably be pretty short.

"Everyone's been to visit, really, except maybe you, Archie and Doc. Cath and Warrick won't leave his side, and Grissom is driving the nurses crazy about details on the bites and the venom and the ants. It's a bit of a zoo, but they're trying to kick everyone out. That's where I've been since ... Well, since we left that nursery. Haven't slept. I haven't even taken a shower yet. I've got all this dirt under my nails, and it's driving me crazy, really. And I think my hair's all flat on top ... What?"

David had put on his listening face, but as Greg went on and on, one of his eyebrows had slowly lifted from its neutral position to a point rather high on his forehead. "I'm glad Nick is doing well. You're babbling."

"Yeah, well, that's partially because you make me even more nervous than Grissom sometimes," Anxiously, Greg's gaze dropped again to the carpet. He looked really uncomfortable, and he shifted in his seat, hands rubbing his thighs in a nervous tick before resting on his knees.

"Gil won't be pleased to know that. He wouldn't like a rival in that regard. He lives to make people nervous – you're the crown jewel of his collection. Greg, just tell me what you're doing here. If Stokes is alright and nothing has happened to anyone else, then why haven't you gone home?"

A frown was now starting to crease David's face. Perhaps Sanders was just so tired he'd simply forgotten the reason he'd came. Perhaps he'd become unstable from exhaustion or even shock. It was both worrying and annoying, and high time Greg left

He began to stand, motioning to the door, "You should go home and get some sleep. I'm sure whatever it is can w..."

"No, it can't, David. It can't wait," The younger man cut him off, his head whipping up. He had grabbed the trace tech's wrist, tugging him back to his seat. That brown stare was suddenly intense, a look that for some reason forced a shiver down Dave's spine. Greg's touch was almost like fire, and he could suddenly feel his own ears heat up, making him look away momentarily, dropping his jaw. What the hell was going on with him, or with Sanders, for that matter? He needed to get control of himself, for fuck's sake! And if it really was important, why couldn't Greg get to the damned point? David was feeling more and more like he wanted to run far, far away.

"It can't wait," Greg continued, suddenly passionate, his voice low, "Because it's already waited. David, how the hell do I say this?" When David looked back at him his face was pure anguish. The shimmer of confusion – almost anger in David's eyes made Greg's fingers slacken on his wrist and he pulled away, curling up on the couch. He radiated absolute misery.

"Look, my mother and my grandparents had a fight twelve years ago ... A fight over me. They wanted me to go early to college and do what I wanted to do. She wanted me to stay in Cali, work locally, the academy had been enough school for me, she didn't think I needed college. They cosigned my loans, she fought with them, and they stopped talking."

David listened, absently running his fingers over his wrist. Mouth pursed at the history lesson, he kept his eyes on the young man. This was a challenge, now. He had to sit and at least try to understand, if he wanted the CSI to stop looking so damned dejected, even if he wasn't good at all this 'emotional' stuff. Besides, there had to be a reason Greg came to him, of all people. There was something important going on here, but David, for all his genius, couldn't quite understand what the hell it was. Apparently, he wasn't going to get out of this without listening or breaking Greg's frail psyche anyway.

Greg hardly took a breath before stumbling onward, "And ... and when she got sick with cancer, she didn't tell any of us. I only found out because I tried to surprise her during spring break, she was getting surgery and I ended up in the hospital the whole week. She made me swear I wouldn't call them.

"Even that summer, when she went into the hospice and I sat there, watching her die. She made me promise. Even after she told me she had never meant the things she'd said to them. Even after doing nothing but reading awful romance novels to her and dabbing her lips with ice water until she couldn't speak, until she looked like someone or something else.

"I only called them the night she passed away. Because I had to tell someone, and they just ... told me they understood. They didn't blame me, David, they just took over the arrangements and acted like there had never been any argument. Like they had been there the whole time. I knew they should have been. It was my fault they hadn't been. I could've gone against her will. But I didn't."

All the emotional outpouring was making David want to run away and hide even more. Except Greg's face was heartbreak and sadness, and that inexplicable part of him that enjoyed their relationship of repartee of wit and abuse suddenly also seemed to ache because Greg was hurting. Besides, he shouldn't have to run away because it was his damn house, and why should Greg come pouring his heart out to him? Surely Mia, Jacqui, Sara or Cath, or even Warrick or Grissom or_ anyone_ would have been a better choice than him, damn it!

"What ... " The trace tech began, suddenly aware of how dry his mouth was. He cut off the _does this have to do with me?_ Not after Greg had just poured his heart out about his mother. Not when he looked like she had just died, as opposed to having passed on years before. Some last shred of tact remained for moments like these, and David swallowed hard, frowning, biting it back and opting instead to ask, "Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because I'm reminded ... I'm reminded constantly, and I never fucking act," Greg's head slumped into his hands.

"Reminded of what?" David's voice was rough, sticking in his throat. What the hell did that mean?

"Reminded of how much we regret things, David!" Greg snapped, almost shouting, "Because my mom died without saying 'I love you' to Papa Olaf one last time. Because Holly Gribbs was shot, Grissom almost was, Sara was held hostage, and Nicky's been nearly shot, stalked, thrown from a second story window, and buried alive. Because I was blown up in the lab explosion and could have easily died. Any of us could have, that day. You got burned, Bobby was hit in the head ... "

"He was helping me get out. That was my fault. He wouldn't even have been there if it hadn't been for me," David almost growled, not liking to remember any of it. The emotion was starting to rub off on him, and it was really making him cross. He was trying to ignore his senses in all possible ways, because they were suddenly trying to tell him to do irrational things, and David was not an irrational man.

"It doesn't matter! If Nick had died instead of us finding him at the last minute, or if I had died when we were pulling him out because you didn't call, or if Bobby hadn't pushed you out of the way of that falling I-beam, think of how many regrets we'd have left behind!"

"Damn it, Greg! I don't want to talk about this anymore. I need to go back to bed." David really, really didn't like where this was going. He wanted to steer them far clear where this was going. Tired, said his voice. Annoyed, angry, tired and exhausted, and wanting to avoid what could be next. Surely there was a way to talk some sense into Greg's pretty little head.

"David," Greg's voice was insistent, cracking, nearly pleading. "Please, listen. I ... "

"Greg, you idiot, you need sleep. We both need some sleep. You're exhausted and you've been up forever. You'll feel better, and for the sake of my sanity it will stop your babbling. Now, if you'd jus... "

And then the world cut out. Because while he was speaking, Greg Sanders had slipped off the couch onto his knees in front of the chair, pulled him forward by his arms, one hand slipping to his cheek, and had pulled David Hodges into what could only be described as a rather desperate, needy kiss. Later, David would wonder why he didn't fight it when Greg had come towards him, but most of his cognitive functions seemed to shut down when Greg's lips suddenly met his.

It was as if all of the little chemicals that ran the attraction centers of David's brain were taunting him, 'This is why you put up with Greg. Why you like him. Why, even though his shirts can make your eyes bleed, he has terrible grooming habits, and he sometimes wins the contests of wills you get into, you still feel you want to be around him. This is why you bite your lip when he smiles. Why you want to share your hobbies with him. Why you get tingles when he looks across a dual microscope at you. We've been trying to tell you. Now that you're touching, kissing, you can feel it. This is why you missed him. Because you knew that, down to your basic body chemistry, he felt right. And you know, it's all about us. He knew and you didn't. Some genius. Pah.'

_Damn those little chemicals ..._

David's fingers were hooking under Greg's collar, even as the kiss was being returned with a sudden greediness that came from years of repression. How could Greg ever know, and yet he did, and he wanted David back, for some inexplicable reason. Leaning back, he pulled Greg up into the chair with him, feeling long fingers slip into the short, dark hair at his neck, their lips and tongues busy at expressing what words had obviously been failing at miserably.

Somehow, Greg was lighter than David would have imagined. The younger man's dress shirt slid along David's bare chest, teasing between them and making him shiver. Needy for more contact, Greg seemed to want to climb further into Dave than possible, a prospect that put David's groin in peril of catching one of Greg's knees. A gentle hand stopped that, pulling Greg up, legs over the chair's arm, into an almost cradle in David's lap. As he embraced the younger man, drawing him comfortably closer, he couldn't help noting smugly to himself that they seemed to fit together rather perfectly.

Intensity versus the need for oxygen, in the end, air won out. Lips parted in two gasps, Greg's fingers tightening in David's hair as if, in breaking apart, the older man would suddenly escape. They were both panting, their foreheads leaned together, and David couldn't help opening his eyes to examine the other man's face. Breathless, red-cheeked, long lashes closed as Greg caught his breath. Something in his chest felt heavy, like a hand was pressing down on his stomach, and his breath caught in his throat. He must have made a noise, because Greg's eyes flickered open, looking first at the ground, and then up.

Up into the piercing deep blue stare of David Hodges. A wave of relief spread over Greg's features, a few chuckles tumbling from his lips as he began to grin, his eyes closing again as he let his head loll back. David stiffened slightly at the noise, not understanding, but the fact that Greg wasn't moving, that his hands were still tangled in his hair, was keeping him from taking it personally ... At least, for now.

When Greg looked at him again, David was looking unamused. One of his eyebrows had raised, his lips quirking with an unasked question. A beatific smile spread over Greg's face. An old smile. A lab rat, DNA tech smile. A _his_ Greg smile. If David didn't have a reputation to keep, he would have dropped the look he was giving the other and grinned right back. As it was, he was well and truly fighting it, the edges of his lips beginning to curve with mirth.

"David, you asked why I came over here."

"Greg, I think I just got my answer."


End file.
